


The Ship of Dreams

by Lorelle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Titanic (1997)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), And yet, Angel Wings, Angst, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Crowley (Good Omens), Crossover, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Footnotes, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not a big enough history nerd to be attempting this, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Mentioned Gabriel (Good Omens), Mentioned God (Good Omens), Mentioned Hastur (Good Omens), No smut here sorry folks, Pining, Pre-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), RMS Titanic, So much angst, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Trauma, Wings, World War I, just hella pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 16:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20029060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelle/pseuds/Lorelle
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale board theRMS Titanic, heading to America to tempt and bless as their Head Offices decree. When disaster strikes, the two are helpless and they wonder, not for the first time, about their role in the Great Plan. CW for mentions of suicide and death.





	1. The Last Time We Spoke

**Author's Note:**

> I tried very hard not to make this too dark, but there are some mentions of suicide and some non-graphic depictions of death. Most of the story is just them working out what they've left unsaid since 1862. I played around with the timeline of the movie a little bit to accommodate the story, but overall I didn't change much. I had not planned for this to be a romance but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this! Thanks for reading.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [aplusbabe](http://aplusbabe.tumblr.com). If anyone has any fic requests, hit me up there!

Queenstown, Ireland, 11 April 1912

“The ark was bigger,” Crowley sniffed as they climbed up the gangplank. Aziraphale hurried along behind him, rolling his eyes. The roar of the crowd behind them was almost deafening; a cacophony of cheering, shouting, horses whinnying, and horns honking that made Aziraphale’s ears ring. It seemed to grow fainter the further up the ramp they climbed, into the shadow of the looming ship.

“Biggest ship in the world and it still isn’t big enough for you? Honestly, Crowley.”

50 years had passed since the pair had last seen each other. On a cloudy Tuesday afternoon in St. James’s Park, Crowley had asked a favour and Aziraphale had refused. Those 50 years had passed without a single word of communication between them. No clandestine meetings to discuss The Arrangement, no casual social visits, not so much as a postcard. Until one week ago when Crowley had turned up on the doorstep of the angel’s bookshop, wanting to talk.

Crowley turned to peer over his shoulder at Aziraphale. He gave him a once over, his brow furrowed over his dark sunglasses. “You know you look ridiculous, right?” Aziraphale looked down at his outfit, an old standby he had been sporting for decades. It included a pair of fitted white trousers, a beige coat with large brass buttons going up the front that barely covered his stomach in the front and trailed down behind him, brushing his calves, and a high-necked, ruffled, white shirt. A bowtie completed the ensemble. For a time the style had been, as the humans said, all the rage.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“What’s wr—angel! It’s not 1820 anymore. Get with the century.” Crowley’s thin frame was adorned in a crisp, black suit jacket. The matching black pants fell loosely, pleats as straight as an arrow, ending at a pair of shiny, black leather spats. Now that Aziraphale looked around, he did notice that most of the men on the dock were dressed similarly to Crowley.

Aziraphale pouted. “It’s not my fault humans are changing their trends all the time. Just when I find something I like, they come along with something new!”

“Welcome aboard the Titanic, gentlemen,” a steward said, bowing slightly. Crowley tipped his hat and Aziraphale smiled at him. They stepped over the threshold, the ship swallowing them up like some great beast. The dull roar of the crowd faded away and was replaced with the quiet tinkling of a grand piano and the buzz of hundreds of voices talking excitedly. A heady cloud of scents hung heavy in the air. Fresh paint. Cleaning chemicals. Seaspray. Both angel and demon paused, taking in their dazzling surroundings. The room they had stepped into was paneled with rich, dark oak. Columns broke up the floor space and overhead a delicate-looking glass dome hovered, separating them from the sky above and filling the room with silvery light. A grand, sweeping staircase dominated the airy room, ushering them forward. At its foot, a golden cherub with curly locks held a lamp aloft. 

Aziraphale drifted over to examine it, his shoes clicking smartly on the polished tile floor. The Almighty had not burdened him with vanity, but he still found himself drawn to human images of angels. They were pleasant little reminders of his purpose on this planet. And it was nice to know he was not the only guardian angel on the ship. He smiled at the cherub’s diminutive wings, feeling his own, rather more impressive[1], wings stretch and flex in another plane of existence. A brief desire to materialise the appendages, to spread them out and fill the cavernous room with their mass seized him, but he quickly shoved the thought aside. It would alarm the humans who were climbing the staircase in groups of twos and threes, chattering happily and admiring the décor.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley climb the stairs, his hips doing that annoying, _wonderful_ thing where they appeared to be moving in all directions at once. Aziraphale closed his eyes, forcing the image from his mind. It wouldn’t do to go and get distracted now. He had forgotten, in the 50 years since he had last seen the demon, just how much of a distraction (Aziraphale would not let himself think the word “temptation”) he was. He was always talking Aziraphale into all manner of activities that were unbecoming of an angel. Getting drunk, meeting up in secret, lying to his superiors[2]. Well, not this time. The angel had a job to do in America and he would bloody well do it, demon or no.

But America was six long days away, and an ocean stood between Aziraphale and his work. It surely couldn’t hurt to socialize a bit with Crowley during the voyage.

When Aziraphale was sure he was once again in command of his thoughts, he opened his eyes. Crowley had stopped on the landing where an intricate oak carving housed a beautiful clock. Giving the cherub one last fond smile, Aziraphale ascended the staircase and joined Crowley on the landing. The demon was scrutinizing the clock, his hands clasped behind his back as though he were being walked down the plank[3]. Two female angels carved in relief stood on either side of the clock face, guarding it. One of them was holding a palm frond over the other’s head.

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to Crowley’s face, wondering if he found the scene familiar. Despite the nearly 6,000 years that separated him from the first rainfall in creation, Aziraphale could remember with startling clarity the instant when the very first drops had begun to fall and he had extended his wing over his demonic counterpart, shielding him from the water. Crowley studied the carving for a few ticks of the clock’s hand while Aziraphale glanced back and force between the clock and Crowley’s face. Just as Aziraphale was about to open his mouth and ask Crowley if he remembered, the demon sighed quietly and turned away.

“Come on. Let’s go find our rooms. We can admire all this later.”

Crowley slunk off down the stairs and Aziraphale followed, wringing his hands and wondering if Crowley was ever going to talk to him properly again or if they were just going to tiptoe around each other for the rest of time.

“Speaking of new,” said Aziraphale with a nonchalance he didn’t feel as they headed for their First Class staterooms, “Have you been to the New World yet?” He himself had visited quite a few times, although there hadn’t been much work for him to do there until that dreadful Columbus fellow showed up and started wrecking the place. Things had only gone downhill from there. He wondered if Crowley had had anything to do with that, then immediately chastised himself. Crowley was many things: moody, mischievous, prone to cheating at cards, the physical embodiment of defiance and desire, but he wasn’t _that _evil.

“New? It’s not new. This lot have known about it for over 400 years and the Natives have been there for thousands of years now,” Crowley said, looking around for a sign to point them towards their rooms.

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

They walked down a long white hallway and Crowley was quiet for a moment.

“Yeah. Been a few times…” Crowley said, trailing off. He sounded like he didn’t like where this conversation was taking them. Aziraphale sighed and decided to drop it, knowing it was pointless to try to get Crowley to share something he didn’t want to. They found their neighbouring staterooms a few minutes later. Aziraphale made a vague suggestion of meeting up for dinner later, which was met with a vague answer. Aziraphale closed the door behind him, knowing that Crowley would meet him for dinner no matter what.

***** 

Crowley sank onto the luxurious bed in his first-class stateroom, throwing his hat to the side. His trunks of clothes (and one filled with just sunglasses) had already been brought aboard, stacked in the corner. He supposed the room was nice. The walls were paneled with satiny smooth wood the colour of the rich, expensive chocolates of which Aziraphale was so fond, broken up by sections of intricate damask wallpaper. There was an armchair covered in a chintz material, a wooden writing table with oak chairs pushed up to it, and all of the fixtures were accented with gold. The humans probably found it quite impressive. After living through France in the Rococo period, Crowley found the room practically austere. The bed was comfortable, though. In spite of himself, he closed his eyes, letting the soft mattress consume him. He pictured Aziraphale next door puttering around, unpacking his absurd clothes or reading one of the many books he had undoubtedly brought along. He knew from their conversations over the years that the angel rarely found it necessary to sleep. No, he was far too busy doing good deeds and spreading kindness to bother with something as frivolous as sleep. Or at least, that’s what he put in his reports back to Heaven. Crowley happened to know that Aziraphale’s nights were more often spent reading by candlelight with a strong cup of tea, or drinking copious amounts of alcohol with him.

Crowley, by contrast, adored sleep. He loved closing his eyes and shutting off his brain for a while, letting his consciousness slip off to the ether where he could visit the stars he’d helped create. Sleeping was the closest he could get to being in Heaven again. Not that he missed Heaven terribly, but it did grow rather tedious sometimes, always trying to think of new ways to tempt the humans into sin that they hadn’t already thought up themselves. Sleep was a nice distraction. After his and Aziraphale’s argument over the acquisition of a certain substance in 1862, he had gone to sleep and hadn’t woken up until the turn of the century. Easier than actually having to think about it, or reliving Aziraphale stomping away from him on an endless loop.

He had managed to keep busy enough for the past 12 years that he’d been awake that he didn’t think about Aziraphale often[4]. It wasn’t until a report came from Head Office that Heaven was sending a representative to America and that he would be going as well that Crowley had finally had to suck it up and think about it. He could still see the angel strolling up to him in the park, a friendly smile on his face before it had all gone wrong. It was on that day in St. James’s park, Crowley reflected with a grimace, that he had told his first-ever lie to Aziraphale.

St. James's Park, 1862

_“Out of the question,” Aziraphale had said, his expression shocked and hurt. Crowley had anticipated an extreme reaction, but he kept his voice level as he asked, “Why not?”_

_“It would destroy you. I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.” The angel shoved the scrap of paper with the words “Holy Water” written on it back into Crowley’s hand. The demon hadn’t anticipated that reason for refusal. He was surprised that Aziraphale would think him capable of that. Didn’t the angel know him at all?_

_“Not what I want it for, just insurance,” he hissed, handing the paper back. He felt Aziraphale’s eyes on him, desperate and terror-stricken._

_“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d be in if…” he glanced up at the sky as though the very eyes of Heaven were upon them, “if they knew I’d been…fraternising? It’s completely out of the question.”_

_Crowley turned his head mechanically away from the ducks he’d been pretending to watch and glowered at Aziraphale._

_ “Fraternising?” he snarled. Was that what their friendship amounted to? The danger they both willingly submitted to just to be standing next to each other? All of the things that they didn’t dare speak aloud, hanging over their heads like a sword? Aziraphale made it sound like they were barely more than acquaintances._

_“Well, whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”_

_“I have lots of other people to ‘fraternise’ with, angel.”_

_“Of course you do,” Aziraphale said as he turned, preparing to march away from Crowley._

_“I don’t need you,” Crowley called after him. The lie tasted bitter in his mouth, but his stupid human body was suddenly awash in angry hormones and the only way to get rid of them was to shove them right back at Aziraphale. It was even worse because the words wouldn’t have always been a lie. There was a time when he _hadn’t_ needed the angel, hadn’t needed his cooperation or his friendship or his presence. Crowley tried to call to his mind the last time he had thought of Aziraphale as The Adversary and nothing more and found he couldn’t. Somewhere along the unraveling spool of time, Aziraphale had become essential. More than a treasured friend, but an irremovable part of him. A fever he couldn’t sweat out. He knew from experience that he could find Aziraphale anywhere in the world, his soul calling him like a moth to a flame. It was dangerous. It was unwise. It would most likely result in the violent destruction of both their souls. But it was too late to stop it now and they both knew it. The best they could do was pretend that none of that was true._

_“And the feeling is mutual. Obviously!” Aziraphale had stormed off and they hadn’t spoken again for 50 years._

Crowley opened his eyes and the memories faded. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about Aziraphale’s careful, polite questions. So far, they had ignored what had transpired between them all those years ago and Crowley was grateful, despite the squirming, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that was telling him to go knock on the angel’s door and get it all sorted out. Foolishness. If Aziraphale was fine to pretend it had never happened, then so was he. He sighed and thought instead about his reasons for being on this ship.

The truth was that Crowley had been to America many times. Both before and after it was named as such. In the old days when North American society consisted of not much more than a smattering of communities spread across the continent, it was just small-scale temptation. He would tempt a man to cheat on his wife, tempt a woman to neglect her family duties in search of adventure, tempt a young man to question the authority of his father, and suchlike. Nothing major, but Head Office seemed pleased enough. He had left America alone for a while, popping in a few times a millennium just to check up. But when he had dropped into the New World in the 1840s, he had found an entirely different place than he had last left. Cities and towns were cropping up further and further West. The Natives who had been there first were being pushed off their land and systematically erased. The victims of “progress.” Crowley had seen it a thousand times before, but it was still unpleasant to dwell on. Unpleasant because he couldn’t help but feel partially responsible.

He sometimes wondered whether his whispered suggestion to go forth and seek knowledge so many years ago had had a sort of ripple effect throughout time. He suspected his suggestion had changed the first humans and every human thereafter, pushing them to explore, to move out into the world, to build, to conquer. Maybe if he’d never stepped in, they would not be constantly seeking more. Maybe they wouldn’t massacre others in the name of securing the most resources.

And now he was expected to help start a war. Not just a war, a Great War. The War to End All Wars[5]. The humans had never exactly _needed_ his help to destroy each other. They found ways to do it all on their own that were much worse than the things he thought up. Demonic imagination bowed before the throne of human ambition. But Hell still expected him to show up and do the deeds.

Interestingly enough, his orders were not to hasten America’s involvement in the war but to slow it down. Hell wanted this war to be long and drawn out and if this powerful new nation got involved too soon, things might be over before they even had a chance to enjoy it. The quota of lives lost that Hell expected wouldn’t be met. Crowley realized he was holding rather a lot of tension in his jaw and consciously relaxed it. Head Office usually let him secure souls in his own way using his own flair, but now apparently Hell felt that he was ready for a little upgrade in duties. His superiors clearly felt he should have been delighted by the news, but he had not been able to muster the proper enthusiasm. He hoped his murmur of, “Oh, right. Sounds like a…splendid idea. I’ll, erm, get on it, shall I?” had sounded cool and unbothered rather than insecure and anxious, but he wasn’t certain he had managed it. No one had commented, other than Hastur, who had given him an odd look. But Hastur had never given him anything approaching a “normal” look, so Crowley figured he was free from suspicion. He had returned to his London flat and cursed at his plants for a good hour just to work off some of the frustration.

Crowley closed his eyes, pulling one of the fluffy feather pillows under his head, and let his mind drift. In the moments between sleep and waking, he recalled the feeling of cold splashes of water landing on his face and arms, heard the quiet rustling as Aziraphale stretched out his wing over Crowley’s head, saw a tongue of flame flickering far off in the desert…

*****

Several hours later, Aziraphale stood in front of Crowley’s stateroom door, rocking onto the balls of his feet while he considered whether or not to knock. Crowley had been the one to suggest that they travel together and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that included spending the voyage together doing all the little activities that the boat offered. He hoped it did. He raised a fist and tapped softly on the door. A few moments later the latch clicked and the door opened silently on smooth hinges. No one was there. His eyes briefly widened in surprise and he scanned the room, relaxing when he spied Crowley reclining on the bed, fully dressed.

“Ah, there you are. I was wondering if you wouldn’t like to take a little walk, explore the ship a bit? I hear there are a few lounges where the humans gather to drink and play cards. And the food is supposed to be excellent.”

Crowley lifted himself onto one elbow, a rather dangerous expression on his face.

“Are you trying to tempt me, angel?” With a start, Aziraphale realized that the reason why it was dangerous was that for once the demon was not scowling, but grinning. He looked like he very much hoped that Aziraphale _was_ trying to tempt him.

“What? Of—of course not, merely suggesting—if you’d prefer to just keep to ourselves, that would be—”

“I’m only teasing you, Aziraphale, don’t get your wings in a twist.”

Crowley pushed himself up to standing with some difficulty. The plush bed seemed to want to hold him prisoner. He held one arm out towards the door.

“Lead the way.”

They walked along the topmost deck of the ship. It was crowded with people, all First-Class passengers judging by the air of snootiness they exuded and the expensive clothing they wore. The demon strolled along beside Aziraphale with his hands in his pockets, not seeming particularly eager to talk. Aziraphale let his mind run over Crowley’s unexpected visit last week, the first time they had seen each other in half a century.

Soho, London, 3 April 1912

_A sharp rapping on the bookshop door made Aziraphale jump slightly. He had been engrossed in a restoration project for several hours now and had lost track of time. The shop had grown dark around him, the only light coming from a single dusty lamp on his desk._

_“I’m afraid we’re closed!” he called out, peering around a shelf to see who was at the door._

_“Aziraphale, it’s me,” came a voice he recognized immediately, despite not hearing it for 50 years. Crowley. Aziraphale stood up, stripping his hands of the white cotton gloves he wore while working on his books. He crossed the shop on legs that suddenly felt rather like they were made of Jell-O and stood before the front door. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open. Crowley was there, leaning one arm on the doorframe, his hips tilted severely to the side, the very definition of contrapposto**[6]**. Aziraphale snapped his gaze back to Crowley’s eyes. Well, his sunglasses. The night was drizzly and raindrops had gathered on the strands of Crowley’s hair, which was the shortest that Aziraphale had ever seen it, but still longer than Aziraphale’s own chaotic mess of curls. The light from the streetlamps glistened off the droplets, surrounding his head in a halo of light._

_“Crowley. What are you doing here?”_

_“Heard you’re going to America,” Crowley said, directing his comment to Aziraphale’s left shoe. With the glasses, it was impossible to tell if he was glaring at the floor or peeking up at Aziraphale with puppy-dog eyes._

_“I…well, yes, but that doesn’t exactly answer my question.”_

_“I just…well, I’m meant to be heading over there as well. And I just thought…”_

_“What? That we’d do another coin toss and one of us would go and do both jobs? Just like old times? No, thank you, Crowley.” He started to close the door. Crowley put a hand out to stop him._

_“No! I…” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, lifting his shoulders and dropping them in a poor approximation of a casual shrug, “I just thought you might like to travel together. I happened to get my hands on two first-class tickets aboard the Titanic for next week and I thought…” When he brought his hand out from his pocket, he produced a folded square of paper. He carefully unfolded it and held it out towards Aziraphale. The words “White Star Liner” and “First Class” were written across it in an elegant script._

_Aziraphale stared at the demon and then down at the paper, his brain racing to catch up. The harsh words that had been exchanged the last time they spoke still rattled around in his brain from time to time. And here was Crowley standing before him, apparently forgiving him, or at least intent on pretending the fight had never happened._

_Aziraphale surveyed Crowley with something that bordered on, but was not quite suspicion. He didn’t know what the demon was up to, but Crowley had never given him a reason not to trust him before._

_“I suppose…that would be fine.”_

“So, remind me again why you’re going to America? I must have forgotten,” Aziraphale asked, determined to figure out what was going on the demon’s head.

“You didn’t forget. Didn’t tell you why.”

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to continue. He had learned time and again that it was unwise to push Crowley to talk about things he didn’t want to. They walked a little further and then Crowley stopped and leaned both elbows on the railing. He stared out at the afternoon sun glittering off the waves like so many diamonds.

“I got promoted,” Crowley finally grumbled.

“Promoted?”

Crowley pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I assume you’ve heard about this Great War coming up in a few years?”

Aziraphale frowned and nodded slowly. He had heard of the War. The whispers had started about five years ago. Gabriel had told him it was part of the Great Plan and he was prohibited from trying to prevent it. He suspected half the reason he was being sent to America now was to keep him from sticking his nose where Heaven had decided it didn’t belong, knowing, as they did, his proclivity for bending the rules.

“A few years ago, Head Office started to set things up for it. They needed someone to do the tempting to help move things in the right—wrong—direction and they chose me. I’ve got to get in close with the American government leaders and tempt them into staying out of the war, at least for a while,” Crowley said. His expression was bored but there was an undercurrent to his words, a hint of something Aziraphale might have called despair. An odd sensation possessed him. It felt like his soul was too big for his body, a bit like putting on a pair of pants that are just slightly too small and feeling like you might burst out of them at any moment. His heart ached in a way he didn’t fully understand. He felt an insane desire to reach out and comfort Crowley with a touch on his hand or shoulder. He pushed the feeling away, settling for words instead of touch.

“Oh…Crowley, I…I’m sorry.”

“Why’re _you_ sorry?

“Come now, dear fellow. We both know you don’t want to do that. You don’t have to pretend for my sake.”

“Not pretending. Happy to serve my master. What else could I possibly want? I’m a demon.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

They watched the waves for a few breaths, then Crowley twisted around to look at Aziraphale head on. The low afternoon sun glinted off his sunglasses.

“What about you? Will you be trying to persuade the humans towards peace and brotherhood?”

“I…I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands in front of him, “Gabriel expressly forbade me from trying to prevent it.”

A smirk twisted itself onto Crowley’s lips and one eyebrow cocked over his glasses.

“I assume you’re planning on interfering anyway?”

Aziraphale winced. The demon knew him too well. Certainly better than anyone else on Earth or in Heaven. Which was lucky; if Gabriel or Michael found out that he was only going to America to try to lessen the damage the Great War would cause, they would have tried to stop him. He would be fortunate if all they did was send him another strongly worded note. The feeling of his soul expanding beyond his corporeal form intensified. He realized that he _liked_ that Crowley knew him so well. He liked being _known._

“Well, I…I figured it couldn’t hurt to just…give a few of the key players a smidge more empathy. It’s not really going against orders, I’m just doing what I was made for,” Aziraphale fumbled out. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, Crowley or himself. Crowley _tsk_ed at him, his smirk growing more pronounced.

“Weren’t you made to follow orders? Carry out The Great Plan,” he held up his hands and wiggled his fingers sarcastically, “with unswerving obedience?

“No, I was made to love the humans and help their souls make it to Heaven. She wouldn’t have given me all this love for them if She didn’t want me to help them.”

Crowley barked out a laugh.

“Just keep telling yourself that, angel.”

[1] Aziraphale didn’t count that as vanity. It was simply an irrefutable fact. His wings were better.

[2] If he was honest with himself, he had never required Crowley’s influence to lie to his superiors. It was just a nice excuse to have at the ready, in case someone accused him of lying. “Oh, that wretch Crowley tempted me into it. Wasn’t my fault at all, you see.”

[3] Crowley had walked off more than his fair share of planks. His days as a pirate had been riotously good fun and even being thrown into the ocean couldn’t sully the memories. Sit around, get absolutely pissed on Haitian rum, and every once in awhile rain terror and destruction down on unsuspecting townsfolk? It was as close to a dream job as a demon could come. And the work was easy as it gets; most pirates already had one foot on Satan’s welcome mat without Crowley ever having to lift a finger.

[4] He had woken to a stack of paperwork from Hell which had included a commendation for him for the invention of the internal combustion engine, which he hadn’t had anything to do with.

[5] It wouldn’t, but it was still a big deal.

[6] Crowley had been directly responsible for the popularization of contrapposto, an art technique used in sculpture and paintings in which the human form is depicted with the weight being carried on one foot so that the hips and shoulders are tilted and not parallel to the ground. This gives the body a more dynamic and relaxed appearance.


	2. To Be

12 April 1912

The next day, Crowley knocked on Aziraphale’s door and got no answer. He must have been off exploring the ship or playing cards in one of the lounges. Crowley strolled around the lavish public spaces, not quite searching for him, but definitely noticing all the rooms that Aziraphale was _not_ in. He wasn’t in the smoking lounges that were dominated by self-important businessmen discussing current events and filling the room with a pungent fog of cigar smoke. He wasn’t in the gymnasium or the swimming pool. He wasn’t in the steamy Turkish baths and he wasn’t anywhere on deck.

Eventually, Crowley found him in the First Class reading and writing lounge. He hadn’t thought to check in there before because the room was intended for First Class women. But there he was, sitting in an armchair next to the fireplace, in which a fire crackled merrily. Crowley picked his way across the room crowded with comfortable chairs and low tables. Finely dressed women sat reading books and chatting quietly with each other. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he performed a demonic miracle that would let him pass through unnoticed.

“Aziraphale, I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here,” Crowley said in a low voice as he stopped in front of the angel. Aziraphale was engrossed in an Oscar Wilde book.[1]

“Why not?” asked Aziraphale, keeping his eyes on his book.

“Look around. There’s only women in here.”

“So?”

“You’re not a woman, Aziraphale.”

“Neither am I man. At least, not right now,” said Aziraphale, glancing up at Crowley and away so fast that Crowley wasn’t sure it had actually happened.

“Oh, is that why I didn’t find you down in the Turkish baths? I thought it was just too warm for you.”

“Ha ha,” he said, not sounding remotely amused, “Look, I don’t know why you’re making a fuss. I made it so that none of the women will even notice me. I won’t make them uncomfortable. I just didn’t want to spend all day cooped up in the room.”

“Why not read in one of the smoking lounges or on the deck?”

Aziraphale made a face. “Too much smoke. Too much sun.”

“You really are something, you know that? Compelling an entire room of humans to ignore you just so you can curl up next to the fire?”

Aziraphale shrugged and continued reading. Crowley sighed and scanned the room. None of the women were paying them the slightest attention.

“Well, can I join you?”

Aziraphale finally tore his gaze from his book, his expression puzzled.

“Why? You don’t read.”

“No, but…you could read to me.”

“It’s a play, Crowley. It doesn’t lend itself to—”

“You’ll just have to do all different voices so I can tell who’s talking,” said Crowley, throwing himself down into a chair beside Aziraphale. “And start from the beginning, I don’t want to miss anything.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, his expression somewhere between annoyed and amused. Then he sighed, flipped back to the first page of the book, and began to read aloud.

Later that evening, they sat together in the grand dining room, sipping elegant little glasses of champagne (Aziraphale sipped, Crowley unhinged his jaw and drank entire glasses at once, as usual). Crowley was ahead of him, already pleasantly sloshed, his sentences starting to meander as only the sentences of someone who had just drunk enough bubbly to fill a bathtub could. Their small, intimate table for two was cluttered with empty champagne bottles. Crowley was sprawled out in his chair at their private table, one elbow on the table, propping his head in his hand.

“M’telling you,” Crowley slurred, “The ark was _at least_ twice as long. Couldn’t take a le—lay—leisurely stroll from one end t’ the other like you can on this,” he waved his hand at the glimmering dining room, nearly knocking off Aziraphale’s hat, “hunk of junk!”

“I think you’re misremembering things. Though, I suppose it did seem a bit bigger on the inside, didn’t it? Needed room for all those animals.” Aziraphale answered, watching Crowley with a fond smile. He swirled his champagne around in his glass. Aziraphale couldn’t wait for their food to arrive. The waiter had assured him that the oysters were life-changing.

“I liked those animals. D’you remember those giant bird things he had on there?” Crowley said, unsteadily pouring himself another glass of champagne and throwing it back in a blink.

“What, the ostriches?”

“Nah, the big ones!”

“Ostriches _are_ big, Crowley.”

“But these ones were _really_ big. Wha’-wha’ are they called?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know which ones you mean, dear boy.”

“C’mon, you’ve got to remember! They were _huge_ and they had all these feathers and they walked ‘round everywhere ‘cos they were too…bloody big to fly and, _and_ they…” Crowley bobbed his head forward and back, looking ridiculously like a chicken, and let his sentence fade into silence. Aziraphale tried and failed to contain a laugh and Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Anyway. They’ve gone now. Ex—erx—extinct. Like those…whatchamacallits…dodos. An’ those…those fuzzy bastards…with the long tails? Lemurs!”

“Crowley, I’m afraid you’re not coherent. And not all the lemurs are extinct yet—"

“But let me ask you this, angel,” Crowley interrupted, taking his chin off his hand and leaning towards Aziraphale like one of the fussy old First Class ladies about to share a salacious secret. He pulled off his sunglasses and shoved them roughly into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Wha’ was the _point_ of that bloke saving all those bloody animals on his great big bloody boat if other humans were just going to come along and kill them off? An’ eat them? An’ put their heads on their…on their walls? An’ fill pillows up with their feathers?” Crowley had started to gesticulate wildly and they were drawing curious glances from those seated at nearby tables.

“Isn’t asking those kinds of questions what got you into trouble in the first place?” Aziraphale asked while he tried to think of a better answer. Crowley frowned and jerked his head to the side in a way that seemed to convey “_Well, yeah, sort of.”_

“Can’t get into much more trouble at this point, though, can I? Not much worse than Falling.”

Crowley was still leaning in close. Aziraphale could feel the demon’s cool breath brush against his cheek. He thought of the last time they had met up, 50 years ago. Of the favour Crowley had asked him, for if it all went pear-shaped. The one Aziraphale couldn’t complete. Not just wouldn’t—couldn’t. The thought of Crowley getting hurt accidentally (or worse, on purpose) with something that Aziraphale had given him was unthinkable.

He had seen the effects of Holy Water first hand just one time, but it was impossible to forget. It had been in the very early days of Earth when one could hardly turn around without running into an angel or a demon. They were everywhere, especially the demons, exploring the new reality, setting long-term schemes in motion, or just plain-old causing mayhem. Aziraphale had foolishly gotten himself surrounded by a gang of truly nasty demons and had been forced to call Head Office for assistance. They had sent Gabriel and the smug bastard had swooped in and rained Holy Water down on them (if he had not been so horrified, he would have been annoyed at Gabriel for showing off). The mental images had never left Aziraphale. He hadn’t had a fully restful night of sleep since. The way the physical body melted away like ice cream on a hot day. The way the soul spun and fizzled like drops of water in a red-hot pan, eventually evaporating into nothingness. It was one of the only times he had ever felt sick to his stomach.

Crowley focused his snake-like eyes on Aziraphale like he knew exactly what the angel was thinking. There was a slight shimmer in the air as Crowley miracled himself sober. His eyes were no longer bleary and unfocused, but razor-sharp and almost fearful. Tension pulsed between them as they stared at each other. It didn’t need to be said out loud, because they both knew it, had known it from the first time they spoke. They could both very well be in _a lot_ more trouble.

A few tables away, a large group of people were roaring with laughter, all of them appearing to be quite as drunk as Crowley had been until moments ago, though in marginally better moods. The tension broke and Crowley turned his head to look at them. Aziraphale blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Crowley watched them for a minute and then muttered something under his breath.

“Didn’t quite catch that, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, his voice sounding falsely cheery even to his own ears. He took a sip of champagne, clenching his shaking hands on the stem of the glass. The bubbles tickled down his throat, echoing the tingling he felt in other parts of his body.

“I said, ‘moas’[2]. Those birds. They were called moas.”

Their food arrived then and they were enveloped in the scent of fresh oysters, lamb with mint sauce and roasted potatoes. The conversation moved on to lighter topics but Aziraphale still caught Crowley staring at him off and on.

Later that night, they stood on one of the upper decks, taking in the night air. They were near the stern of the ship, watching the white track of the ship’s wake trail off into the dark sea. They had been quiet for a few minutes, neither willing to re-open the can of worms that had been broached at dinner. Aziraphale’s ears pricked at the sound of shoes rapping swiftly across the wooden deck. He looked around and saw a young woman running straight for the back of the ship, running like all the demons of Hell were at her heels.

“Goodness, do you suppose she’s alright?” Aziraphale asked, laying a hand on Crowley’s arm. Crowley hadn’t even turned his head at the noise.

The woman stopped about 10 feet away from the back of the ship, then inched forward unsteadily. She was wearing an exquisite evening gown, definitely a First Class passenger, and her flaming tangle of red hair reminded him of Crowley’s. To Aziraphale’s horror, she began to climb over the railing. It was difficult to be certain from that distance, but she appeared to be crying. Panic gripped his chest with strong, cold fingers.

“Crowley, she’s going to jump! We have to do something,”

“Do something if you want, angel. I don’t make people’s choices for them.”

“What?” asked Aziraphale, not really hearing him. He was trying to think of some way to get the woman to stop.

Before Aziraphale could lift a finger, a young man rose from where he’d been lying on a nearby bench and edged cautiously towards her. They watched in silence as he talked to her in a low voice for a few minutes. Their words were drowned out by the sound of the engines and the wind, but whatever he was saying worked. Eventually, he encouraged her to turn around and take his hand. He had almost got her pulled back over the railing when her foot slipped. She screamed and the youth grabbed her by her hand, barely managing to hold on. Aziraphale gasped, his hand reaching out uselessly across the expanse. Crowley was still standing motionless beside him, looking unaffected. He wasn’t going to help them. Well, if he wouldn’t, Aziraphale would.

He snapped his fingers and the air quivered. The two struggling humans below them suddenly found that they had just a bit more strength than they would have normally. It was enough. The youth hauled the woman back over the railing and they collapsed onto the deck. Her screams had alerted some crewmen and soon the couple was surrounded by people asking what had happened.

“Some help you were,” Aziraphale said, straightening his jacket lapels and studying Crowley from the corner of his eye. Throughout all the activity, Crowley hadn’t moved. He stood leaning against the railing, his eyes trained on the ship’s wake. Aziraphale didn’t like it when Crowley got quiet like this. It usually meant he was about to say something that would either make him blush against his will or make him look around to make sure no raging battalions of angels were about to descend on them and smite him for his heresy. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Crowley proved him right.

“I didn’t want a suicide pill,” Crowley said in a voice that was hardly more than a murmur. Aziraphale turned his gaze away from the commotion and let his eyes run indulgently over Crowley’s form. The demon was still staring straight ahead, his shoulders tense. Maybe the stillness was some leftover snake response to stress.

“The—what I asked you for. Back in 1862. That wasn’t…what I wanted it for.”

“I know, Crowley,” Aziraphale answered, although he had been far from sure.

“I just…I don’t want you to think that _I_ would choose that. I won’t leave. Not ever.”

Aziraphale was quiet for the space of a few heartbeats, searching Crowley’s face for some clue as to what the demon was thinking, feeling.

“So it’s alright for that woman down there to kill herself, but not you?”

“The Almighty created them to have choices. I give them more choices. I don’t take them away.”

“Sometimes they need help to make the right choices,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Like I said, I don’t decide for them what the ‘right’ choice is. I just let them know their options.”

Aziraphale looked away from Crowley and back to the young woman who was now wrapped in a blanket and trying to explain what had happened to the curious crowd. Like a phantom, the words of another play echoed back to him from across the centuries. He had heard it just as he was now, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Crowley.

_To be or not to be, that is the question._

Part of him agreed with Crowley, loathe though he was to admit it. The whole point of humanity was that they had free will. They could make choices that would bring them either closer to Heaven or closer to Hell. The angels and demons helped them along, but the final decisions were in their hands.

Eventually, the crowd below them moved back into the warmth of the interior of the ship and the deck was quiet once more. They stood in the darkness for a while longer, until Crowley remarked that he was cold and they retreated to their rooms.

13 April 1912

The third day at sea passed for Crowley in a haze of cigar smoke and steam from the Turkish baths[3]. Crowley was quite enjoying the amenities of the ship. He even managed to work in a few small temptations. He tempted a man to steal a hat and coat that had been left sitting on one of the deck chairs. He tempted a young girl to disobey her mother and spend the morning reading a magazine rather than studying. He put doubt into the minds of a couple who were on the _Titanic_ for their honeymoon. It was a very productive afternoon. And it certainly helped to distract him from the unpleasantness the night before.

He finally caught up with Aziraphale around teatime, feeling a little giddy from all the tempting. The angel was sitting in one of the lounges with one man in a White Star Line uniform and hat, and one man in a sharp suit. There were half-drunk snifters of brandy sitting in front of each of them.

“Ah, Crowley, there you are! Come, come sit,” Aziraphale waved him over. Crowley swaggered over and sat down at an empty chair next to Aziraphale.

“Crowley, may I present Captain Edward Smith and Mr. Joseph Ismay. Mr. Ismay is the chairman of the White Star Line. He was instrumental in the building of this ship.”

They all shook hands. Captain Smith was a straight-backed man who looked as though he had little tolerance for nonsense. Mr. Ismay had a round face and a rather magnificent moustache.

“How do you two know each other?” Mr. Ismay asked.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other. Aziraphale’s eyes were a little too wide and the sudden fear showed in them plainly. 6,000 years and they had yet to come up with a convincing lie to tell the humans about how they knew each other. It was truly a miracle they hadn’t been found out yet.

“We’re, um…”

“Business associates,” Crowley invented quickly, “He sells old books, I help him find them. Although, if you ask me, it’s not so much a business as it is a collection. He can’t bear to sell them.”

Aziraphale relaxed and nodded, endorsing the lie.

“Fascinating!” said Captain Smith, “Tell us about your collection.”

Aziraphale required no further prompting and launched into a description of his shop and his books. Crowley watched him talk, glad he didn’t need to contribute much. Once Aziraphale started talking about books, there was no stopping him for at least a half hour. As the angel prattled on, to the polite nodding of Captain Smith and Mr. Ismay, Crowley wondered how Aziraphale had come to be drinking with these two men. Forging relationships with the humans was something he seemed to be able to do effortlessly. Aziraphale actually did have other people to fraternise with. Everywhere they went together, Aziraphale was learning the humans’ names, asking about their families, sharing jokes with them. He had even stayed in contact with a few of them over many years. It wasn’t that Crowley couldn’t do those things too, he had just never particularly enjoyed anyone’s company besides Aziraphale’s. Humans were alright for a good laugh now and again, and they made acceptable drinking companions when Aziraphale was off handing out blessings. But other than that, he didn’t seek out their friendship. The conversation had migrated from Aziraphale’s shop to the ship they were currently on.

“This ship is a wonder, Mr. Ismay. I haven’t seen anything to rival it in all my years,” said Aziraphale. Crowley snorted quietly next to him. He had still found the ark more impressive, even if only because Noah and his family had built it all by hand with no fancy tools.

“How many passengers can she hold?”

“She has room enough for over 3,400 people, including crew. But we only have 2,202 souls on board.” Though Aziraphale had directed his question at Mr. Ismay, Captain Smith was the one who answered.

“But do you have enough lifeboats for all those passengers?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale glared at him, widening his eyes pointedly. Crowley knew the angel hated it when he played devil’s advocate with the humans. It made the humans uncomfortable, especially when Crowley started saying things that he should have no way of knowing. Even now, the two men had leaned slightly away, sat up a little straighter, and nervously flicked their gaze away from him.

“We actually have more lifeboats than are legally required for a ship of this size. The lifeboats are meant to ferry passengers to rescue ships and then return for more people. Mr. Ismay here made the case that the deck being any more cluttered with lifeboats would be an eyesore and possibly even a hazard. It is highly unlikely that anything could cause damage to a ship of this size.”

“They call her unsinkable,” said Crowley. There was an undercurrent in his tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe it or was committed to coming across as skeptical and unfazed.

“That’s correct, sir,” said Mr. Ismay, proud as a mother hen, “God Himself could not sink this ship.”

Crowley and Aziraphale peeked over at each other, each fighting the urge to laugh. Crowley managed to turn his chuckle into a cough. The Almighty could bloody well do whatever She fancied.

“Well, I wouldn’t presume to speak for the Almighty, but you had better hope they don’t take that as a challenge.”

[1] “The Importance of Being Earnest,” Crowley noted with chagrin. He hadn’t had time to read it or see it performed since he’d woken from his 38-year nap, although he had heard about the trouble the poor Wilde fellow had gotten himself into following the play’s release. The human race’s ridiculous obsession with the separations of gender and discomfort with sexualities that varied from the norm was just one more reason Crowley thought the Great Plan was a load of toss.

[2] Moas were incredibly silly looking, large flightless birds, similar to ostriches and emus. New Zealand had once been home to many different species of moa, but they were unfortunately hunted to extinction by the 15th century.

[3] Crowley currently _was_ a man, in form if not in fundamental nature.


	3. Fixed

14 April 1912

After dinner on the fourth day of the voyage, they took another stroll around the deck. They had fallen into an easy routine. Spend the day in their own pursuits, meet up for dinner, then explore the ship’s decks. Far below them, the waves lapped at the hull of the ship as it sliced through the water. The spray was kicking up higher than it had in the days before, and Crowley sensed that the boat had increased speed[1]. Crowley’s eyes eventually adjusted to the dim outside light. Beyond the grasp of the lamps illuminating the deck, the ocean lay flat and smooth, an enormous mirror reflecting Heaven back at itself. The waning crescent moon hung low in the sky, an eerie grin minutes from slipping below the horizon.

“Almost…too calm, wouldn’t you agree?” said Aziraphale, twisting his hands and squinting out at the blackness. His words rose in a cloud of vapor that evaporated into the frigid night air.

“Too calm and too bloody cold. I heard the humans steering this thing say there was an ice warning,” Crowley answered with a shiver. Though his human body could handle cold temperatures better than his snake body had, he still much preferred warmer weather. Without seeming to think about it, Aziraphale slipped out of his coat and handed it to Crowley.

“Erm, thanks,” Crowley mumbled, shoving his goosebump-ridden arms through the sleeves. It fit him easily. He was a bit taller than Aziraphale, but the angel had broader shoulders. The cream-coloured coat wasn’t at all his style but Crowley could not muster up enough energy to care. It was warm, but not only like a coat that had been worn by a human would have been warm. It was warm in the way he remembered Heaven being warm. Not just physically warm but emotionally warm. Comforting. Loving. The difference was subtle; a human might not have been able to detect it at all. But to Crowley, it roared. It was not as uncomfortable as it should have been. Feeling loved or comforted wasn’t something with which most demons were familiar. He tried not to feel bitter about it, but it was only growing more frustrating, having to pretend that he felt nothing for the angel. Even just maintaining an air of indifference towards him was sometimes impossible. He’d long since given up on outright antagonism.

The deck suddenly shuddered beneath their feet, and they frowned at each other in confusion.

“What is that?” Crowley said.

“Not sure. Almost feels like we hit a patch of gravel.”

“We’re in the middle of the bloody Atlantic, there’s no gravel.”

“Well, obviously, I’m just saying that’s what it feels like.”

“What else could it be?”

“I—” Aziraphale started, looking around curiously. There was a flurry of activity around them. Official-looking people in smart suits were running around, shouting frantic orders.

“There’s something going on on the other side of the ship,” Aziraphale said, craning his neck to see.

“Come on, let’s go see,” Crowley said, automatically reaching out and taking Aziraphale’s hand. They hurried across the deck, the floor still rumbling beneath them, and froze solid in their tracks. It took Crowley a moment to understand what he was seeing. A towering blueish wall was sliding past them, grating against the side of the ship as it did. It wasn’t until a shower of huge chunks of ice rained down on the deck, knocking a watching couple off their feet, that he understood. Aziraphale apparently realized at the same instant.

“It’s an iceberg,” the angel said, sounding dazed.

A cold sliver of fear slithered down Crowley’s chest, as though he had swallowed one of the chunks of ice currently skittering across the deck. Of course, the worst he and Aziraphale had to fear from a sinking ship was discorporation, but the humans…

The ship scraped along, eventually making it past the iceberg. The shuddering stopped and the iceberg faded into the darkness behind them. Crowley and Aziraphale stood in shocked silence for a few moments. The sudden quiet was deafening. The humans, the angel, and the demon watching, waiting for something to happen.

“Do you…suppose the damage is bad?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Dunno.”

“I…I could try fixing it?”

Crowley swallowed loudly, his fingers tightening around Aziraphale’s.

“Yeah. Do that.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Crowley watched him, his brow furrowed. The angel scrunched up his face in concentration, raised the hand that Crowley wasn’t clinging to, and snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. Crowley looked around for some sign that something had changed.

“Did it work?”

“I…I-I don’t think so.” The angel was chewing on his lower lip, his eyebrows wrinkled together.

“I’ll give it a go,” said Crowley, releasing Aziraphale’s hand. He imagined the ragged hole in the side of the ship knitting back together, the water in the bulkheads draining out. He snapped his fingers, willing his imagination into reality. There was no shimmer in the air of a changed reality like there normally was. It hadn’t worked.

“Didn’t work?”

“Didn’t work.”

The next hour passed in a blur. Crowley and Aziraphale watched in mute horror as the tragedy unfolded, too numb to do more. In the beginning, the humans had climbed onto the deck looking sleepy and irritated at being woken only to stand around in the freezing cold. But as stewards moved through the crowds, trying to organize people into lifeboat boarding groups, the atmosphere of panic was growing by the minute. People began to flood up from the lower levels, crowding the deck. The faces that passed them now were twisted with a terrible, visceral fear. Crowley finally thawed out enough to pull them into an enclosed sitting room nearby. It was dark and vacant, the wicker armchairs and couches rising out of the gloom like ghosts. Aziraphale collapsed onto a chaise lounge, completely overwhelmed. His hands curled into fists and released, over and over. The sounds from outside were slightly muffled now but they could still hear the shouting, could still fear the thick haze of fear that had enveloped the boat and was pressing in on them from all sides. It made Crowley’s head swim. Aziraphale appeared similarly affected.

“I think we should go,” Crowley managed to say, his voice tight and brittle.

“What?”

“There’s nothing we can do. The ship is going to sink. The best we can do is not take up any space on the lifeboats.”

“How?” said Aziraphale in a voice that was barely more than a breath.

“I suppose we could swim for it but flying would be my preference.”

“What, and just…leave them all? I…I need a moment here, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, putting a hand over his eyes. Crowley chewed on his lower lip, growing impatient. The floor was starting to tilt. The furniture creaked and a few chairs started to shift, sliding towards the front of the ship. Knowing that Aziraphale was in danger was almost physically painful and Crowley just wanted to _go_, to have their feet back on dry land.

“Come on. It’s time to go,” Crowley said, tugging Aziraphale to his feet. The angel swayed, putting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder for balance. Crowley stepped away from his gentle touch. His nerves were stretched taut, and he felt as though the tiniest bit of pressure might make him snap. His hands were shaking and he found that he wasn’t just impatient or fearful. He was furious. He was furious at Hell for putting him on this stupid ship. Furious at The Almighty for putting a damn iceberg in their path. Furious at the humans for insisting on sailing at full speed despite the ice warning. Furious that he was apparently forbidden from doing anything to change the fate of the thousands of humans on board. And furious at himself for allowing Aziraphale to walk into even a hint of danger. It was his fault they were both here.

Crowley thought his faith in the Almighty had been well and truly shattered when he Fell, when She had ripped Her love away and cast him down, his wings burning from the speed at which he dropped. But She kept finding new ways to grind away a little more each day. A new plague, a new war, a new flood. Grinding away the shards of his conviction as a river does a canyon. Turning it to little more than sand, swept away in the current.

He remembered now one of the reasons why he saw the angel so infrequently. Aziraphale was so _good_ and he spread goodness wherever he went. He was a reflection of everything Crowley hated[2] to see in himself. Things that he wasn’t allowed to be. Things demons physically couldn’t be. Gentle. Compassionate. Earnest. Kind. All he wanted was to be a good angel, a good _person. _Save kids. Ease suffering. Pull humanity towards the light. Even when it was so obvious to Crowley that the Almighty didn’t care. Neither side really cared about the humans. Mostly, they regarded them as little more than a means to an end. Neither side was worth fighting for, in Crowley’s honest opinion. If he had to choose to believe in something, he chose Aziraphale.

The angel in question was looking at him with eyes that reflected all the tragedy they had seen.

“No. I—I can’t just do _nothing_. You heard what the captain said. There aren’t enough lifeboats. There are _children. _I can’t let them all drown.”

“You can and you will.”

“We have to save them!”

Crowley rounded on him, trapping him against the wall, one hand pressed to the wall on either side of Aziraphale’s head. His face was contorted with some strong emotion that took Aziraphale a moment to parse. Before he could say anything else, Crowley was hissing at him.

“We will do no such thing, angel,” he said, venom dripping from his words. He didn’t say “angel” like he usually did, his lips wrapping around the word like a caress. It came out closer to a threat. Aziraphale could feel tension, fear, and anger rolling off Crowley in waves, but he didn’t feel threatened. The anger was clearly defined and it wasn’t directed at him.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve stood by and watched children drown. Knowing the Almighty, it won’t be the last. She kills them all the time. _All the time!_ And we keep on living,” Crowley ranted. His face was ashen and a vein had appeared on his forehead. He backed away from Aziraphale and threw his head back and his arms out, directing his next words at the ceiling, “We’re the ones who survive and apparently, years and years and _years_ of watching humans suffer and die around us is just all part of the _stupid, bloody Ineffable Plan._”

It was only because Aziraphale knew Crowley so well that he could see that his tirade wasn’t hatred-fueled. No matter how good a façade Crowley put up, he couldn’t stop the truth from seeping through the cracks. His heart was breaking. Aziraphale could sense the pain behind his heated words.

Footsteps raced by outside the door. Panicked shouting. A baby crying. The rattling of chains as lifeboats were lowered into the icy, inky water. Beneath the chaos floated the strains of a somber violin.

“So, are you leaving with me now, or are you staying to get discorporated?”

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat. He fought against the pricks of fire threatening to flood his eyes with tears.

“I’m coming.”

Crowley was right. The ship was doomed. There was only so much that he could do in major events like these. Any one event involving this many people was part of the Plan and the outcome couldn’t be altered. Aziraphale had tried. Lord knows, he had tried. Whenever he had stepped in in important human events, his miracles had gone awry, or backfired, or simply not worked at all. He could save one person, maybe two. Influence a few people to help the others. But he couldn’t really change things.

_When things get to that point, the choices have already been made,_ the Almighty had whispered to him once, centuries ago. He had been crumpled on the floor of his cottage in Bulgaria after an earthquake in Turkey had killed a quarter of a million people. His heart had ached with the loss of so many souls from the world all at once. In grief, he had pleaded with the Almighty why, _why_ couldn’t he help them all? Why couldn’t he save them from this dangerous world she’d created? Why couldn’t he save them from _themselves_? Why had She given him this love for humanity if She was only going to break his heart every day with their suffering? What was the _point_?

It was one of Her more comprehensible answers, considering She didn’t often answer at all. Aziraphale had lost track of how many times he’d laid awake at night while the world slept, thinking about choices. Whose choices shaped the world? Humanity’s or Hers? She had created these creatures to make choices, to choose between Good and Evil, to be swayed one way or the other. But it just kept getting more and more complicated. The more time went by, the more Aziraphale thought that there wasn’t a way to definitively choose one side or the other. No action, no choice, no _person,_ was completely good or completely bad. _And no demon for that matter, _Aziraphale thought. And if that was the case, why bother choosing a side at all?

Crowley was currently tugging at his hand, wrenching Aziraphale back to the present. The demon half-pulled him out of the sitting room and onto the deck, which had begun to tilt beneath their feet at an alarming angle. Throngs of frantic people rushed by them. Some of them were dressed in sleeping clothes, some in elegant gowns and fine suits. Some were wearing life preservers. Most of them were not. They pushed and shoved, trying to go—somewhere. There was nowhere to run. Their desperation thrummed through the air until it became like a living thing, undulating through the crowd, spreading fear like a disease.

Aziraphale and Crowley stopped in the middle of the deck and, knowing that anyone who happened to notice amidst the chaos them would most likely be dead soon, materialised their wings and took flight. The deck fell away beneath their feet as they shot into the sky like corks from a shaken champagne bottle. They watched the scene unfold before them, their wings beating against the frigid air. In the blackness, Aziraphale couldn’t quite see where Crowley’s charcoal-coloured wings ended and the night began. His own stood out against the sky as brightly as a flame. The roar of the crowd was faint as this distance, but Crowley knew that it would take a lot more than distance to remove the sounds of the screams from his memory. His head was full of screams. Almost 6,000 years of screams.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the screams below them quieted. Once the ship’s stern had sunk into black depths, silence began to fall. They let themselves drift downward, closer to the horrible tangle of floating human bodies. Aziraphale closed his eyes and reached out with his soul, searching for signs of life. The boats nearby were filled to the brim with the little flickering points of energy he knew to be human souls, but the icy waters were cold and dark. No sparks. No life. Until—

He found one. A young woman clinging to both life and a wooden door. With a shock, he realized it was the same girl who just two days ago had been hanging off the back of the ship, preparing to jump. He gave her a tiny flicker of hope, filling her with the same strength he had before; the strength to choose to live. He watched as she rolled into the water, found a whistle on a nearby life vest and blew it with all her strength. A returning lifeboat found her a few minutes later and hauled her shivering body aboard. Crowley watched him with knowing eyes.

*****

It took the RMS Carpathia two very long hours to reach the site of the wreck. When Crowley first spied her lights on the horizon, he nudged Aziraphale and pointed. They flew towards it gratefully. Aziraphale’s wings had started to ache from fatigue and his fingers and nose were numb from the cold. They landed in an empty part of the ship, laying low while the crew prepared for the rescue. As the survivors of the sinking were brought aboard, it was easy to blend in with the crowd of cold, traumatized people. Many hours later, they stood on the desk of the RMS Carpathia, blankets wrapped around their shoulders. They were both trying very hard not to focus on the haunted faces around them. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, whose face was empty and blank as he stared at nothing in particular. Crowley took a deep breath, trying to make his voice gentle.

“You saved that girl. You couldn’t have saved them all, but you helped her. You might not have changed the world but,” he nodded over to where the young woman was huddled alone, “you changed her world. And you can help all those people who survived. That’s enough, Aziraphale. You can’t save the entire world. You’re just one person.”

Aziraphale sighed, his face showing a whisper of life.

“Just one _angel._ I should—I should…” he whispered, sounding like he wasn’t sure _what_ he should be doing. He wrung his hands.

“If She’s not beaming down here in front of you to tell you otherwise, I’d say it’s safe to assume She knows you’ll do the right things.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed and he took Crowley’s hand, squeezing it. Crowley squeezed back, then quickly released it.

When the boat docked in New York three uneventful days later, they decided to put off their duties for a few days to recover. Neither of them had thought to rescue their luggage from the ship as it sank, so they bought themselves new clothes and food with money that Crowley had been able to have wired to him from his expansive London accounts. Aziraphale bemoaned the loss of several of his favorite outfits that he had had for centuries, as well as the loss of several of his treasured first editions. Privately, Crowley felt it was a good thing that the angel's wardrobe was receiving some much-needed updates.

They rented out a cottage just outside of the city. Neither of them reported the wreck to their Head Offices. They decided it was too risky. What if word got out to either side that they had both been present on the ship when it sank? What would Heaven and Hell do with the information that an angel and a demon were traveling on luxury ocean liners together? Nothing good. They sent in reports that they had arrived safely in America and would be getting to work soon. The day before they were to go their separate ways, Crowley suggested they open a few bottles of the wine that Aziraphale had bought before they left the city. It had been impossible for either one of them to sleep since the Titanic had gone down, so they stayed up drinking long into the night. At some point as they sat next to each other on the cottage’s cushy sofa, the alcohol and the stress of the past few days caught up with Crowley. He started to hyperventilate, and Aziraphale put down his wine glass on an end table, looking concerned.

“Crowley? Whatever is the matter?”

“Everything,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Please calm down, you’ll pass out—”

Crowley slithered from his place on the couch to the floor. His fingers searched hungrily for something to hold onto and they found Aziraphale’s pantleg.

“It’s everything, angel. It’s these _wars_ and these _sides_ and all the while people just keep _dying_ and the Almighty doesn’t care!”

“I don’t believe that. She does care. She _must._ I believe that everything that’s happened is for the best. We just aren’t meant to know the whys.”

Crowley curled his knees to his chest and buried his face in the fabric against Aziraphale’s knee.

“My dear, I…I didn’t know this weighed so heavily on you. I thought—” He lifted a hand to place on top of Crowley’s head, then thought better of it. He brought his hand down to rest on his lap instead.

“Thought what?” Crowley said, his voice muffled by the cloth. He stared up at Aziraphale. His amber eyes had a wild, tortured quality about them that the angel had never seen there before.

“That because I’m a demon, I don’t care about kids drowning? That their suffering doesn’t bother me? Well, it does. I thought maybe after 6,000 years, it would start to not hurt as much. But…” Crowley gulped and took a deep, shaky breath. Aziraphale was at a loss for what to say or do. His chest was aching; for his friend, and for the humans who had died. If there was nothing he could do to ease their suffering, there had to be something he could do to ease Crowley’s. The demon he had always thought of as cool-headed and eternally composed was now curled up at his feet, his voice breaking and looking like he was clinging to the cliff of sanity by his very fingertips. It frightened him.

“I wish…is there anything I can do? To lighten the load a little?”

“I don’t think there is, angel,” Crowley said, his voice sounding ragged, “Just part of being a demon, isn’t it? Goes with the territory.”

Crowley loosened his fingers and let go of Aziraphale’s pantleg, twisting around to sit on the floor with his knees bent and his head in his hands. Aziraphale thought for a few minutes. He thought about all the ways humans lifted each other up, distracted each other when things got too much to bear. He thought about all the things he had wanted to do with Crowley for hundreds of years. All the ways he wanted to touch him. All the things that were as forbidden as that damned apple had been. Right now he didn’t care who might or might not be watching. He didn’t care about sides, or duties, or rules. All he cared about was Crowley. Aziraphale let his body slide from the couch and onto the floor, coming to rest beside Crowley’s curled form. Crowley watched him as he did, looking a little confused and—Aziraphale thought—a little afraid.

“Aziraphale—”

“Shh. I want to try something. Let me help,” Aziraphale said. He gently took Crowley’s thin face in his hands, closed his eyes and, without thinking it through, pressed his lips to Crowley’s.

Several things happened at once. Crowley drew in a sharp, surprised breath through his nose, as his mouth was otherwise occupied. His hands were suddenly covering Aziraphale’s in a viselike grip. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if Crowley meant to clutch him closer or fling his hands away and apparently neither could Crowley because he made no move to do either. He just held Aziraphale’s hands tightly under his own. Aziraphale felt a thrill of electricity run through his body, setting him tingling from the top of his head to his toes. He had never kissed anyone else[3] so he had no point of reference, but he rather thought that kissing Crowley wasn’t nearly as bad as kissing a demon should be. Actually, it was wonderful. His lips were soft and pliant, forming to Aziraphale’s easily, and they tasted how a campfire smells. Smoky and sweet. Aziraphale’s heart and lungs felt like they were going to expand right out of his ribcage.

It only lasted a moment before Crowley unfroze. He staggered back, pushing away from Aziraphale and lurching to his feet. His yellow eyes were wide, shocked. The irises had expanded, leaving no white areas. A confusing jumble of emotions seemed to surround him, an aura of pure chaos.

“Angel!” Crowley said, the word as hushed as it was fervent. He whipped his gaze around as though he was expecting Satan himself to appear and smite him on the spot.

“I—er. Please, do excuse me if that was unwelcome. You seemed like you needed a distraction and f-from what I gather, the humans do that to distract themselves from their problems all the time.”

“We are _not_ human, Aziraphale. We’re—" Crowley’s eyes wheeled around the room, as though the words to describe what exactly they were would suddenly appear written on the wall. His rough voice pierced through Aziraphale like a sword, slicing him open and jabbing where it hurt the most. He felt like running from the room. And there was something else. It took him a moment to put a word to the feeling. _Rejection._ He hadn’t felt it often, just around the other angels, who made it obvious they didn’t understand him or want him around. Feeling it from Crowley was ten times worse. It was hardly a surprise that Crowley had reacted that way and he shouldn’t have expected any better. He knew the score. He knew that what he had just done was forbidden, not because it wasn’t wanted, but because of what could happen to them if it did. They couldn’t change their natures.

“I know we’re not,” Aziraphale said from the floor, unable to meet the demon’s eyes. He twisted his fingers together and released them. “I just thought…maybe it would help. I can’t stand to see…well, I apologise.”

Gradually, Crowley stopped scanning the room for intruding demonic forces and relaxed. Sighing heavily, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t apologize, Aziraphale,” Crowley lifted his gaze and let his eyes bore into Aziraphale’s, willing him to understand. He was terrified to speak the words aloud.

“You—you must know. How much I…” He couldn’t continue. Aziraphale watched him from the floor, his grey eyes opened wide. He nodded his head slowly. His expression had morphed into a fierce kind of hope that set Crowley’s chest to aching in a different way than it had been a few minutes ago. The chaos descended once more and Crowley was quite incapacitated for a few moments while the surge of emotions buffeted him. He hated seeing that hope. It just reminded him of all the things he couldn’t say. All the things he couldn’t do.

“I know,” said Aziraphale, his tone reverent.

“I…I suppose it did make me think about something else, so…thank you.”

“Anytime,” replied the angel with a fragile smile.

“I think I’m going to go to bed. I’ll, erm, see you tomorrow.”

Crowley left the room, but he didn’t go to sleep. He lay awake on his bed until the sky gradually lightened outside. He never heard the Aziraphale go to bed.

They were quiet in the morning, testing the waters, making sure their friendship was still intact. They ate a light breakfast and then Crowley gathered up his new possessions, shoved his sunglasses onto his face and called for a carriage. When it arrived, they stood awkwardly in the doorway, both unsure of what to say.

“I guess I’ll see you back in England at some point,” Crowley said, running a hand through his hair nervously.

“Yes, yes, I suppose you will.”

Aziraphale watched from the doorway as the demon walked down the path to the waiting carriage. His trunks were loaded and the driver was seated in the front. The angel dithered for a few moments and then called out, “Crowley?”

Crowley paused, turning back. He waited for Aziraphale to continue, one eyebrow raised.

“I…I don’t suppose you’d want to travel back to England together as well?”

Half of Crowley’s mouth pulled up into a crooked grin. Aziraphale had the sensation of being too big for his body again, like he was about to burst out of his skin and his soul would go shooting off like a firework. His fingernails dug into the doorjamb as he held it for support. He released his breath, trying to will the feelings away and only succeeding marginally.

“Sure, angel. I’ll come find you when I’m finished.”

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. They were still friends. Nothing else mattered. He could get through anything so long as Crowley would still be next to him throwing out sarcastic remarks.

He lifted a hand out towards Aziraphale in farewell, then stepped into the carriage. Aziraphale gazed after it as it drove away and stayed leaning against the door long after the carriage had traveled out of sight. He imagined that the further the carriage traveled away from him, the less he would miss Crowley, the less his heart would ache. If he concentrated hard enough, he could make it true. What had happened between them would have to be ignored. Maybe someday they would be free to say the words out loud, but until then he had a job to do and having feelings for his best friend would only be a dangerous distraction. Finally, his heart obeyed and the emotions that had run wild through him since the moment Crowley knocked on his bookshop door were tucked neatly away. He would have to face them someday. But for now, Aziraphale clapped his hands gently together, turning back into the cottage alone.

“Right. To work.”

[1] No doubt Mr. Ismay’s doing. The man had been eager to show off the ship’s capabilities.

[2] But also loved

[3] besides the occasional sinner’s forehead during a blessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other (considerably lighter and fluffier) Good Omens stories! 
> 
> [Playing With Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19793527/chapters/46861102) and the companion fic [Betting High](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930735).


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